


Foolish Fantasy

by JulyStorms



Series: Before Colors Broke into Shades [47]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She convinced herself that it was all right to pretend he loved her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cellorocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket/gifts).



> This sin is brought to you by Cello, who requested #11.“The way you said ‘I love you’…with a shuddering gasp.”

Fantasies were for stupid children.

Hitch had been a stupid child once with more than her fair share of fantasies. It was weird to think that some of them weren't fantasies any longer, but realities well within her grasp. She could own nice clothes, now, if she wanted them—and not just for daytime use, either, but for sleeping in: she could afford nice things simply for sleeping in! What a notion!

When Hitch had been five, ten—even twelve—years old, she had desired such frivolous things, but kept those thoughts to herself: they were only thoughts, after all; they weren’t at all plausible in the reality she lived in, where a pretty sleeping shift could probably buy food for her and her mother for more than a week—or even longer, if they needed it to last. They had always been good at making things last. Most people were, where they were from. Most people there had fantasies that stayed fantasies.

Hitch was fortunate enough, or perhaps simply ambitious enough, to make sure that at least some of the things she wanted, she was able to have. She bought a pretty sleeping shift and oozed so much delight afterward that she almost cried, alarming both Boris and Marlowe who were coming back from patrol. But that wasn’t all: she bought nice dresses and unmentionables and a hairbrush—the first she’d ever owned—all with money she had earned herself.

She was forced to realize that most of her childhood fantasies weren’t even really that fantastical: they were merely desires to have things that she had been denied due to the financial situation in which she had been born. Nobody else in the Military Police was half so excited to go out to buy mundane necessities like stockings, but Hitch could remember a time not so long ago when she had been unable to have those things when she’d needed them, and so she could not help but be pleased with being able to make such purchases.

* * *

 

Marlowe didn't love her, but perhaps one day he would. That was her current fantasy—a fantasy because it was the only thing that she really wanted that felt entirely out of reach.

He was gone, after all, had left her for the Survey Corps. Hitch had never been worth staying for, so his decision to leave was not a surprise; the only surprise she felt at his transfer was at the sharp hurting it caused—at the way it made her feel desperate to keep him at any cost. And her desperation had only pushed him further away.

He would never come back.

Not for her.

So she convinced herself that it was all right to pretend he loved her when she was by herself in her room and the silence was so heavy that she felt as if it were strangling her.

They were shameful fantasies, and she always regretted them later. He would never find out about them because she would never tell him, but she couldn't help but think, afterward, that if he knew what she did when she thought about him, that he would be repulsed.

But she always ended up returning to the same kinds of thoughts again sooner or later. The allure of being able to indulge, to lose herself in her imagination: it was too hard to resist, some nights, when she thought of what had existed between, and how she always wanted more while he never did--never would. Not with someone like her.

She tried to imagine a different scene—different scenario—each time. If it didn't make sense in her mind she couldn't pretend it was real, and she wanted, more than anything, to be able to pretend, if only for a little while.

* * *

 

Tonight she imagines that she's transferred to the Survey Corps. It's a frequent fantasy because it makes the most sense. As much as she loves the idea of him returning to her, she knows it's impossible—knows he's more likely to think of her favorably if she follows him, if she proves to him that she believes in his ideals and dreams enough to commit to them herself.

So in her mind she joins the Survey Corps. Because it's all in her head, she doesn't feel very afraid, just nervous to see him again. But she finds him in the mess hall or while he's practicing drills with the others, and he's startled to see her, like he didn't expect to see her. That feels real, at least; she thinks he would be very surprised to see her, now.

Nothing happens, then.

But the scenes skip ahead, quickly; she doesn't dwell on any of them because she's thought about them before and she wants to get to the good part. 

This time he runs into her in the middle of the night. She got up to answer the call of nature and they see each other outside as she’s heading back to the barracks. He stops her as if he's waited all day to speak to her and asks her why she's there.

She plays stupid for old times' sake, one foot back against the barn wall, grinning at him. She says she’s taking a piss—what else? He ignores the joke and asks again.

She doesn't tell him she's there for him. She tells him that she's there because he was right, because she agrees with his ideas. She says that she's sorry. He's not weak at all, or stupid. She was only afraid that he would die, and she didn't want that. He’s too important to die.

_To her_ , she doesn’t say, but it’s implied, and Marlowe knows, this time, what she means. That’s another fantasy, isn’t it?

He kisses her, then. Sometimes when she imagines this scene, it's a strong kiss, as desperate as she feels, but tonight it's tentative, prodding. Soft and warm and slow.

She pulls him into the barn. Not right away—only when he’s managed to push her up against the side of the barn and she decides that’s not close enough.

He protests, of course, vaguely, not really against the idea so much as desirous of her consent. She makes sure he knows what she wants when they get to the loft. She presses his shoulders back against the hay and straddles his waist, kissing him hard.

His hands are warm against the soft, thin material of her shift, and then hot as she grinds down against him, making him groan into her mouth. His fingers clench in the fabric. She does it again because the friction feels good for her, too, and the harder he gets the more there is for her to rub herself against.

She stops when she's wet and throbbing and even her nipples ache from want, and falls to sucking on his neck—a half-hearted attempt to make the scene last longer. It only ever lasts as long as she's willing to wait, and this time it's just a few minutes. She shifts up and off of him long enough to discard her underwear, and then she's helping him tug his pants down.

His dick's appearance isn't ever something she thinks too much about. What matters is how it feels inside of her, and so she always imagines that it fits her well. She's usually more focused on Marlowe's face, anyway. She likes the idea of him out of breath and sweating because of her, and of the low, breathless moan he might let out as she sinks down onto him.

The fucking doesn't last long because she knows Marlowe’s inexperienced and unable to hold out, but it's nice while it lasts—or the idea of it, anyway, and she tries to imagine more than just the feeling of his dick inside her. There's the smell of the barn to consider, the hay sticking up in Marlowe's hair, his flushed face and neck, and the way his hands are holding her: stroking up and down her sides, or grabbing her ass, or maybe just pushing back her hair so that he can see her face.

She pulls herself off of him before he can come inside her, grabs him instead, thinks about how he's covered in her, as she helps finish him off. She likes to imagine that he's loud because he's only ever that way about things he's passionate about.

Afterward, he finishes her off, presses his thumb against her aching clit and rubs until she's arching her back, seeing stars. When her muscles are clenching around his fingers, fingers she has to pretend aren't thin, as hers are, but shaped like his—exactly like his; she remembers them precisely—this is when he tells her what she wants to hear. She's the one coming undone, yet he's the one who shudders and gasps and says that he loves her.

It's nice, for a moment. She imagines that he holds her for a while afterward—maybe does something nice, like kisses her cheek or tucks her hair behind her ear.

But then it fades, and she's back in her room—alone in the dark, her fingers wet. 

She pretends not to be ashamed of this and wipes her hand off on her blanket before she tugs down her shift and rolls over to face the wall.

She tries to imagine him there with her, either flat on his back next to her or curled up behind her, one arm around her waist—but she can't. Not this night. Not any night. Because she knows it's nothing but a delusional fantasy. He doesn't even  _like_  her anymore; how could he ever love her?

She feels stupid, laying there alone in the dark, the insides of her thighs still slick.

God, he'd hate her if he knew.


End file.
